Life's Rich Tapestry
Howdy. Jim here. Graduate of this fair burgh and cultural critic for South Carolina's finest print weekly, The Cousin. Seems the folks here at the Oxford Student needed a sharp eye and two fingers to type homespun musings for all you privileged young people. And since I only got one eye and two fingers (wood chipper accident), the editorial staff and I get on just great.
Truth be told, I'm back in the Carfax swing o' things for reasons professional and personal. I had a real rough 2000. My drama therapy centre back in Calooka hit a duff run, and law suits have been pilin' on my desk like silver-dollar pancakes. First a mime class for Tourette's sydromers went all awry. Should have seen that comin'. The cusswords flew so damned thick that the Baptist College further down the Mall changed its lunch sermon to "Cursing: Why Satan loves Effs, Esses and Sees" .
Then our production of Chekov's The Cherry Orchard for serial sex offenders turned mighty ugly. I turn my back on Trofimov for just one second, and Elenya starts worrying about more than just her fissured sense of 19th century Russian womanhood. If you know what I mean.
So, while the lawyers yack out the damages claims back in the States, I'm here on a glorious Grand Tour. It's time to drink from the long neck of British knowledge like you would a cold beer. But unlike beer, culture ain't just a breakfast drink. My summer noons and nights were spent in the clubs and scrubs of Scotland's Edinburgh. Boy, that festival was swell! The acts were mostly right up my street. Favourites included the Gay Samurai Revue (best homo feudal warrior gig since Kurosawa died), and Hamlet: The Musical (To be or not to be with Danish oompah band - classy). Blue ribbon went to the finest drama this critic ever saw. It was titled simply "Graham! The World's Fastest Blindman". Can a white stick really be used as a relay baton? Catch this hot ticket for a darned emotional answer.
With this sort of warm-up, great things are expected from the arts in Oxford. It is so damned heartwarming to be living here once more, surrounded by creative keenies. Memories of youth tend to flood back. I was born and raised in Darcee, Kansas. We liked our high culture for most of my boyhood. But interest in the arts pretty much died when the water board fixed the phosphate leak from the mine. Plus we got a new pool hall in 1970, so since then we've sorta missed out on most of the changes in abstract European sculpture.
That's why coming here is like bathing in a cultural River Jordan. No excuses for not getting involved boys and girls. Freshers, Sophomores, even my fellow American Visiting Students. Our benighted nation needs smiles and artsy innovation now more than ever. So sock Bin Laden in the eye with a sepia-toned short film. Butt-whip Bin Laden with some experimental free verse. Anything to keep those muddle-brained towelhead Tal-ee-ban at bay. If art can move us all, we shall not be moved. I hope y'all see my point.
4th Oct 2001